


Exhibitionism

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“‘You don’t mind a little exhibitionism, do you senpai?’” Justin attempts to seduce Spirit and gets significantly more than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Refusal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Justin has had his eye on Spirit Albarn ever since he was called back to Death City upon the Kishin’s awakening. In the midst of the war against Arachnophobia and Asura and the Kishin’s spreading madness, it seemed bad form to pursue anything beyond a professional relationship, but with the Kishin defeated and the city in celebration Justin calculates that it is best to make a move now, before he is sent back to his post to see Death Scythe maybe never.

The older man seems receptive at first. He picks up on Justin’s hints about a tour of the laboratory he shares with his meister almost instantly, and is more than willing to show the younger Death Weapon around once they are inside. Justin leaves his headphones in so Death Scythe will turn around when he’s speaking, so he can watch the other weapon’s mouth move smooth over the sounds he can’t hear as he speaks, but he isn’t really paying attention to the meaning. Far more important is the shift of Death Scythe’s shoulders under his shirt, freed of his usual black jacket, and the fall of his long hair across the back of his neck, and the sparkle in his blue eyes when he twists back so Justin can read his lips, and by the time they reach the other weapon’s bedroom Justin has undressed him in his head four times over.

“This is it,” Death Scythe is saying, throwing the door open with a careless gesture. “Not much here, really.”

“Fascinating,” Justin says, because it is, or at least the wide bed is. He pushes past the older man to stand inside the room itself, eyeing the decorations like he really cares about them.

Death Scythe lets his arm fall from its dismissive gesture. Justin tips his head to see the other man’s face when he speaks. “Is -- is it?” His face is confused and slightly nervous, like he suspects where this is going.

Justin smiles and turns entirely around. He  _likes_  it when they’re nervous.

“Yes,” he says, trying to let some of his intent free into his voice.  _Something_  comes through, because Death Scythe takes a half-step back, but Justin is expecting that, is already stepping between the other weapon and the door. “ _Fascinating_ ,” and he is staring at the other man’s lips, carefully, deliberately, and then he runs his tongue across his own lower lip just so there won’t be any confusion.

He can see the scythe swallow hard, can see the nervousness turning into panicked fear in those blue eyes, can see him edge away until his back hits the wall. “Um, we should really move on --”

“No,” Justin says, and then he steps in while Death Scythe is still leaning away so the other man is pinned between proximity to Justin and the wall. The scythe is taller by a few inches, but he is on the run now, trying to escape rather than fight, and that means Justin has won. He curls his hands around the back of Death Scythe’s neck, savouring the tremble as the other weapon tries to twist away and the texture of that hair against his palms, and leans in to brush his mouth against Death Scythe’s.

The older man’s lips are warm, soft even as he tries to turn away, tries to voice a protest. Justin pulls back, looks up blue-into-blue, and smiles in a way that gets an actual flinch from the other man. “I didn’t  _hear_  you.”

“No, Justin, stop, you --” he is saying. Justin leans in close to run his tongue along the other man’s jawline, shows his teeth in not-a-smile as he starts “Sorry, are you  _saying_  something?”

There’s no warning at all, not in Death Scythe’s shoulders or from Justin’s periphery or in vibrations through the walls. There is just a force yanking him backward, his hands are separated from the other weapon’s neck, and Justin is stumbling backward. He only registers the pain in his scalp, the fingers digging into a handful of his hair, once he has regained his balance and the instinctive panic subsides, and then Death Scythe is gone from his vision and he is looking up at meister Franken Stein.

There is no expression on the meister’s face at all, but the hand in Justin’s hair is still painfully tight even when he tries to wiggle free, and there is no gentleness at all to the hand that seizes the cord of his headphones and yanks them free of his ears. Justin hisses against the unpleasant angle of force, and then the music backgrounding his life is gone.

“He said  _no_.” Stein sounds as calm as he looks. Justin can’t see his eyes behind the glare off the meister’s glasses, but his mouth is relaxed and his shoulders loose and nothing about this should be causing the crippling wail of fear his instincts are offering. Justin has never been afraid of  _anyone_  before.

“Come on, Stein, he’s just a kid,” Death Scythe says from somewhere behind the meister currently dominating all of Justin’s attention.

“Which makes him ideal for  _education_.” Stein shows his teeth and Justin barely chokes back the whimper that threatens to swamp his control. “Come on,” he doesn’t offer, pulling Justin backward by his hold on blond hair. Justin stumbles back one step, two, nearly falling, and then something hard hits the back of his knees and his legs fold from under him just as Stein releases his hold. The world jolts as he impacts with something, and when he can take another breath he realizes it’s a chair, pushed up against the wall of the room. Stein tips his chin down so the glare disappears, and Justin instantly wishes he hadn’t. The lack of anger in his green eyes would be a relief if they weren’t so entirely devoid of any emotion at all. Justin is suddenly very very sure that Stein would be looking at him the same way if he were bleeding out in front of the meister, like he’s an object rather than a living person, and that  _does_  win a half-heard whine of fright from his throat.

Stein reaches out, clasps his left hand over Justin’s shoulder, and before Justin can decide how to interpret this the meister says “Soul Force,” and all the muscles in his body try to cramp at once. He would scream if he could; it is not exactly  _painful_  but it is  _deeply_  unpleasant. Then it is gone, Death Scythe is objecting in the distance, and Stein is turning away.

“Don’t worry, senpai, he’s fine.” A drawer opens next to Justin’s head, and it’s only when he tries to turn to see that he realizes he  _can’t_. A quick attempt indicates that he can’t in fact move any part of his body except his mouth and his eyes, like he’s been physically attached to the chair. “I needed the electricity for Soul Sutures.”

“Stein.” Death Scythe’s voice is a sigh, weighted with something underneath that Justin doesn’t recognize but that clearly carries some sort of emotional import. “I’m not going to let you  _hurt_  him.”

“I’m not going to  _hurt_  him,” Stein echoes back all of the other weapon’s tone in his own voice. “But since he  _wanted_  to seduce you…” He comes back into Justin’s field of view. His hands are full of white rope, narrow and surprisingly clean. Justin wouldn’t be at all startled if they were bloodstained, given their apparent owner. Stein begins to wrap the cords around Justin’s shoulders as efficiently as if he regularly ties people to chairs while continuing to talk in a more normal tone. “I thought we’d give him the next best thing.”

When Stein shifts down so Justin can see past him, Death Scythe is staring at the meister’s back. He doesn’t look...surprised, exactly, but his mouth is slightly open and his eyes are darker than Justin has ever seen them, even at this distance. He glances at Justin, his tongue flicks out over his lips, and the motion is entirely involuntary but Justin still has the odd swooping sensation of all his blood trying to go from fear to arousal with no stop-offs along the way. The other weapon looks back at Stein’s shoulders, and Justin can  _see_  his gaze sliding heavy over the meister’s body and he is very sure that he is in way over his head and equally sure that the restraints to keep him in place are  _fully_  unnecessary, that  _nothing_  could persuade him to move at this point.

The original attachments fade as soon as Stein steps back from the chair. Justin pulls against the ropes, not in any real attempt to break free, but just to see how much give they have. Not much, as it turns out -- he can flex his fingers but not turn his wrists, and his shoulders might as well still be attached to the chair back for all the leeway he has. He can turn his head now, though, take stock of the surroundings if he wants.

The newfound freedom is useless at the moment, though, because Stein has gone back to Death Scythe and the  _look_  in Death Scythe’s eyes is riveting, soft and hot and liquid all at the same time, and it would be embarrassing to realize how  _absent_  that is when he looks at Justin if it weren’t so  _enthralling_.

Stein glances back, too quick for Justin to get control of his face, and smirks before he turns back to his weapon.

“You don’t mind a little exhibitionism, do you senpai?” The end of the sentence falls oddly flat, although it’s clearly supposed to be a question, but there is a whole world of rough tonality under the deadpan tone that scrapes over Justin’s ears like feelings returning to a numb limb. The meister reaches out, slides his fingers into his weapon’s hair, and the weapon leans into the touch, eyelashes fluttering almost to closed for a moment before he opens his eyes, looks past Stein’s shoulder at Justin. He does that thing with his tongue again, slides it absently over his bottom lip, and when he speaks he is still watching the younger weapon.

“No.” Look back at Stein. “I don’t mind.”

Stein curls his fingers around Death Scythe’s head, pulls him in closer, and Justin is sure they are about to kiss a moment before the meister twists away, dips his head low as he tugs Death Scythe’s head back to press his mouth against the weapon’s throat. The weapon makes a sound that would be a groan or a laugh if his neck were less strained, tips his head further back, and Justin can see the sound vibrate along the line of his neck under Stein’s tongue and hums before he can stop himself, imitating the sound to better imagine the sensation of sound-turned-feel.

Stein’s hand comes out of the weapon’s hair, comes to his collar to pull the knot of his tie half-loose, and Death Scythe is reaching to help, pale hands and golden twining together like this is a regular occurrence, as if the weapon  _never_  takes off his tie without the meister there to help, and that is all Justin is  _ever_  going to be able to consider every time he sees that particular article of clothing now. Stein doesn’t bother taking it fully off, just loosens it an inch or two so Death Scythe can pull open his top few buttons, and then he trails his mouth down to collarbone and Death Scythe brings his head down. His eyes are shut; with their task completed his hands come around Stein’s shoulders, laying a pattern of contact across the habitual lab coat for a moment before they trace seams up to the collar, slide underneath to push the weight off the meister’s shoulders. Stein twists his arm behind to free one sleeve, then the other before bringing his fingers to the waistband of Death Scythe’s slacks, tugging at the bottom edge of the shirt until it comes free and he can slide his hands up and under the fabric.

With the obstruction of cloth in the way Justin can’t tell exactly what the meister is doing, but there’s the shift of muscle under Stein’s short sleeves and a triangle of pale skin between green shirt and black pants, and then Death Scythe twists and sucks an inhale. It sounds like he’s in pain but goes through Justin like a shock, startling him into echoing the sound.

Stein goes still, looks back at him again, and offers that same predatory grin from earlier. “Ah. How  _inconsiderate_  of me.” He steps back, around the other man, until he is behind the weapon and they are both facing Justin. “Is this a better view?”

Justin can’t speak, isn’t sure he is supposed to have an answer anyway, and Stein is unbuttoning Death Scythe’s shirt from behind and the possibility of responding goes clear out of his head. Death Scythe is smiling, blushing and looking away, but after a moment he reaches up to pull his tie free, loops it over his head and tosses it to land atop Stein’s discarded lab coat in front of him. Stein’s hands free the last button and skim back up Death Scythe’s stomach; Justin can see the muscles fluttering as the weapon sucks in breath sharply. Too-pale fingers settle over a tanned hip while Stein brings his other hand up to pinch Death Scythe’s nipple, just visible under the edge of his shirt. The other man groans, almost-a-laugh, and arches his back to press his skin into the meister’s hands.

Death Scythe isn’t looking at him -- his eyes are shut at the moment, one hand up to tangle into Stein’s hair -- but Stein is. Every time Justin drags his eyes sideways the meister is eyeing him with a smirk that doesn’t warm the green in his gaze at all, amusement entirely failing to counteract the calculation. When he catches Justin looking at him for the third time, he raises an eyebrow, and Justin has a frenzied moment to wonder how he can be so calm with Death Scythe pressed against him, every breath coming audible in response to his touch.

“You didn’t come here to watch  _me_ ,” he says, and Justin gapes at him for a moment before the words gain any meaning at all in his hot-flushed thoughts. “Not enough to look at?”

The hand on Death Scythe’s hip slides down, following the diagonal of the bone to dip under the edge of black slacks. There is an inhale, heavy with anticipation, and then Stein’s hand does  _something_  that Justin can’t see for the veil of cloth and Death Scythe  _moans_ , a smile curving his lips so that all Justin can imagine for a moment is what that mouth would look like around his own erection. Both weapons cant their hips forward in perfect synchronization, but Justin hits no resistance while Death Scythe apparently does, for the way his body goes momentarily slack with pleasure.

Justin doesn’t realize he’s whining in frustration until Stein catches his eye, raises that eyebrow again. The sound cuts off in his throat like the meister has clapped a hand over his mouth and he flushes with what is absolutely the last of the blood left in him above the waist.

Stein turns away and presses his lips against Death Scythe’s ear. Justin can see his mouth moving but the angle is wrong for him to read the meaning and the volume is far too soft for him to catch. But he can still see the weapon’s face, can see his blue eyes come open to focus on Justin himself, can see the blush creep over his cheekbones, can see him catch his lower lip against his teeth, can see him nod without breaking that focus. Stein pulls back, watching Death Scythe’s face, and Death Scythe twists to look at him, and all four hands relocate to relatively tame positions - shoulder, neck, hip, back -- while their lips come together. They both take a half-step together so their bodies align, pressed together along the whole length, and Justin feels like he’s been dunked in a cold shower of painful jealousy.

It only lasts for a moment before Stein steps back, tips his head down to watch his hands while he unfastens the buckle of the other man’s belt. The weapon keeps his hold on the meister’s shoulders to balance his weight while he toes off his shoes with rather more haste than grace. Not that Justin is complaining. He’d rather lose that shiver of loneliness in the flush of fantastic desire, and at this point he almost wishes Stein would just shove the unbuttoned shirt off Death Scythe’s shoulder before he goes for the pants.

It’s just as he begins to shift against the rope, fidgeting with nerves, that the belt comes free and he sucks in a breath of anticipation as...Stein hooks his wrist past the removed resistance, pushing past the waist of the weapon’s boxers to brush his fingers over what Justin  _assumes_  is flushed skin but can’t actually  _see_. He groans in frustration, and when he glances at Stein the meister’s expression makes it clear that he knows exactly what he is doing. He is watching Justin’s face, mouth tight with repressed amusement, and Justin can’t help the hiss that he makes in response.

Stein does laugh then, and that gets Death Scythe’s attention. “What--?” he starts, eyebrows pulling together in confusion before he follows Stein’s gaze to Justin.

“Don’t  _tease_ , Stein,” he chides the other man. “Did you want to put on a show or not?”

“But I’m so  _good_  at teasing,” Stein begins. Justin can see his wrist flex sharply, can see Death Scythe’s face drop in forgetful pleasure before he regains self-control.

“Ah--! Hnn. Yes, I  _know_.”

Stein rolls his eyes. “ _Fine_. If you insist.” He extricates his hand, hooks his fingers into the edge of Death Scythe’s pants and boxers alike, and pulls down until they fall into a puddle on the floor. The weapon steps out of them and Justin’s eyes follow the line of hip to ass to thigh, unbroken golden shading, and his blood-deprived brain wonders how Death Scythe can get such an even tan, he must sunbathe naked, and then he makes it around to where Stein is wrapping his fingers around Death Scythe’s cock and he processes the gasping inhale the weapon is taking and trivial concerns vanish entirely.

Death Scythe is just in his shirt now, hanging loose on his shoulders so Stein’s wrist pulls it back like a curtain whenever he slides his hand up along the line of the weapon’s back. His other hand is more than occupied, setting an agonizingly slow pace against the other man’s erection while his thumb slides over the head every few strokes. His fingers are shifting too, Justin realizes, flexing and sliding at a different rhythm than the one his hand is setting, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to leave here with a fantasy about the meister’s hands as well as the other weapon and he can’t care right now.

Death Scythe’s head is tipped forward, his hair falling forward to obscure his face, but Justin can just see his parted lips and can hear every stuttering inhale he takes, breath coming broken in times with the motions of Stein’s hand. His hands are braced hard on the meister’s shoulders; it looks like those are the only thing keeping him upright. They might actually be, at this point.

Stein rocks his hips forward, pressing his own erection against Death Scythe’s thigh, and the weapon half-laughs around his rushed exhale.

“Get on the bed,” Stein purrs. It’s got the same command as the tone he took with Justin but none of the aggression. The sound vibrates through Justin’s skin like the bass line of music, thrumming into his bones and blood.

Death Scythe obeys instantly, letting his hold on the meister’s shoulder go to more topple backward than actively drop onto the mattress. Stein leans in over him just as quickly, reestablishing his briefly lost contact with the weapon’s cock and reaching out to gently push the shirt free. Death Scythe drops back to lie flat on the bed, reaches up to dig one hand into his hair while stretching for Stein with the other. Stein laughs, lets the weapon go, brushes his fingers over the hand in red hair while Death Scythe whimpers and arches his hips back up for the lost contact.

“Patience, senpai,” Stein murmurs. It’s too low for Justin to hear but clear to read from the movements of the meister’s mouth. Death Scythe huffs in frustration, drops back to the bed and glares up at Stein.

“ _Tease_ ,” the weapon hisses. Stein laughs again, leans low to brush his lips over red hair, then rolls away and off the bed. Death Scythe twists to half-follow him, rolling across the bed and away from Justin so he can see the play of muscle across the other weapon’s lower back as he turns, the pull of shoulders under skin as he pushes up to almost-sitting.

Stein comes back to the bed. His hands are slick; when he catches Death Scythe’s hip his fingers leave shiny patterns in their wake.

The weapon purrs, a wordless hum of pleasure, and Stein smiles down at him before pulling his hold along his skin.

“Turn around.” Loud enough for Justin to hear, this time. “So he can  _watch_.”

Death Scythe twists sideways, snaking across the bed the wrong way, and he smiles when he catches Justin’s gaze. Justin  _knows_  where this is going, now, and he doesn’t know what his face is doing but he is having a difficult time breathing normally; controlling his facial features is a significantly lower priority.

Stein leans in low, and this time his hair obscures his mouth, but Death Scythe flushes, looks away from Justin, laughs. He pushes up from the bed, arms flexing as he moves, and comes up to his knees on the mattress. It’s a precarious balance -- Justin can see him wobble with the effort -- but Stein brings one hand to steady the weapon’s hip and he straightens. Death Scythe’s not looking at Justin anymore, more at a point just beyond his head, and his lips are parted in anticipation.

It’s easier to watch Death Scythe’s face than anything else; the angle is bad to really see what Stein is doing, and the meister is still nearly fully-clothed behind the weapon. But Justin can see Death Scythe, can see when his eyes go unfocused and he exhales hard, can see his tongue slide over his lower lip when he whines back in his throat, can see his eyelids drop shut and his arm come out to brace against the wall next to him.

“Senpai--” Stein starts to say, but Death Scythe is talking over him, “ _Stein_ ,” and that one word is hitting low registers that Justin has never heard from another person’s mouth and there is no way he is going to survive this, he is going to  _die_  right here from sheer excess of  _imagination_ , and then the weapon sighs a groan and tips his hips back towards Stein’s hand, and Justin’s throat makes a whining sound that he never intended it to.

Stein laughs. “That fast?” The hand against Death Scythe’s hip sweeps around, brushes over the weapon’s cock. Death Scythe makes a mewling sound at the contact and almost falls forward. He catches himself on a hand, breathing hard and too fast, and carefully pushes himself back to his balance.

“Okay.” Stein sounds like he’s agreeing to a request Justin didn’t hear. Death Scythe’s eyes are still shut, but he smiles at whatever Stein is doing against his back. “You ready?”

“ _Yes_.”

There’s the sound of a zipper, a rustle of clothing, but Justin can’t really see anything around Death Scythe himself, and it’s hard to focus on anything other than the pull of skin over muscle, the trembling anticipation of his erection, and the angle of his lower lip against his teeth again.

Justin can’t see Stein clearly, but he can tell when the meister slides inside his weapon. Death Scythe’s face goes slack; his mouth drops open, eyebrows come up from their angle over his eyes, and he sighs like he’s never really breathed before. Stein makes some sound as well, but it’s muffled by Death Scythe’s hair and blends with the weapon’s almost-moan until Justin can’t tell who did what.

He is certain that he has  _never_  been this hard before in his life. Usually he is well on his way to orgasm if he is on his own at this point, but he can’t get anything like enough friction from the minimal movement he can get against his restraints, and he is rapidly going from incredibly turned-on to  _painfully_  so.

It is at this point that Stein moves his hips, and Death Scythe shifts with the motion, like they’re a single unit, and Justin  _does_  moan then, and it sounds like agony and arousal at once.

Stein laughs again, presses up against Death Scythe’s back so Justin can see him over the weapon’s shoulder. His smile looks almost sincere, this time.

“Enjoying yourself?” He sounds breathy, like he’s half-drowned, but the words are clear enough. He shifts again, thrusting up into Death Scythe, and the weapon nearly falls forward before Stein catches his shoulder to hold him steady. “It’s like being  _complete_ , being with him like this.” Pause as the meister audibly takes a breath. “Like Resonance.” Then he smiles and it is the one from before, all sharp edges and cut. “Not that  _you_  would know, I guess.”

Justin hisses like he’s been hit. Even Death Scythe reacts, eyes coming open in shock as he half-twists to face the meister.

“ _Stein!_  That was--” Stein is watching the weapon’s face, eyes gone soft behind his glasses, and he tips his hips up just as the weapon starts talking. The sentence turns into a moan instead, and then Stein’s ridiculous fingers come around to curl around Death Scythe’s cock again and  _Justin_  sets aside the insult because there just isn’t enough blood in his body to handle what he’s seeing  _and_  stay upset.

Death Scythe entirely fails to stay upright after that. He keeps tipping forward, reaching out to balance on the bed, until finally Stein hooks his free arm across the weapon’s chest and pulls him backward to lean against the meister. The motion of their hips and Stein’s hand around Death Scythe are at different rates but still in harmony, a melody over the musical theme. Death Scythe’s hand comes up to dig into Stein’s hair, Stein’s mouth presses against the curve of Death Scythe’s throat and shoulder, and then the meister pulls hard and Death Scythe groans and jerks and comes.

Justin’s mouth makes another sound, a high whine of an inhale. Stein shifts his hand to the weapon’s hip, holds him steady while he thrusts once, twice, three times, and then his grip goes tight and he sighs against Death Scythe’s skin.

Justin doesn’t look away while Stein tips he and Death Scythe to the bed and presses a kiss to the weapon’s shoulder before he pulls away. He’s not sure he can remember how to blink. Or close his eyes. Or breathe. The arousal of the situation is tipping over into proper pain now and there’s  _nothing_  he can do about it in his current position.

Death Scythe has collapsed into a boneless puddle on the bed; Stein is a little more active, but even then it takes what feels like an eternity for him to refasten his pants and make his way over to where Justin is rubbing his wrists raw on the rope.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Stein asks. It sounds conciliatory, friendly, but it is entirely at odds with the dark amusement behind his glasses. He reaches behind Justin to unknot the rope so for a moment his shirt is pressed against the weapon’s face. He smells like smoke and sex and Death Scythe and Justin shuts his eyes then and bites his lip to keep from whimpering.

The ropes come off faster than they went on, all in all, and by the time he’s free again Justin is mostly resigned to getting home as fast as possible to have what is going to be one of the more painful orgasms of his life. Stein leans back, half-crouched in front of him so they are on eye level.

“Justin,” he says, no emotion, just sound, and then he reaches out and presses the heel of his hand against Justin’s painfully understimulated erection. The contact is so sudden and so  _much_  that Justin chokes, gasps for air, and comes  _instantly_ , faster and harder than he ever has before in his life. His vision goes white, his throat makes a sound he’s never heard or made before, and when sight and sensation come back he is tipped forward, his hands braced against Stein’s chest like he’s trying to push him away but all his weight leaning on them too.

He swallows, inhales carefully, sits up and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Stein is grinning at him, and when he tries to look away all he finds is Death Scythe wearing an identical smirk from his position across the bed.

“Come on,” Stein says, and grips his elbow to drag him to his feet before all the sensation has come back to his toes. Justin stumbles after him, because it is that or be dragged, and they are halfway down the hallway before he thinks to look back at Death Scythe.

Stein doesn’t speak again until they reach the front door. By then Justin can feel his feet again, albeit painfully, so when Stein drops his arm he keeps his own balance, even when the meister catches a handful of his hair instead to tip his head back.

“Come to  _me_  next time,” he says conversationally, not at all like he might tear Justin’s throat out with his teeth. “If you’re  _very_  good Death Scythe might let you suck him off while I’m fucking him. He’s into that.”

Before Justin has time to process this beyond a blinding mental image and a whimper, Stein has shoved him out and the door has shut behind him.


	2. Acceptance

Justin comes to Stein, the second time.

It’s a strange experience, dropping by the meister’s classroom at the end of the school day. It’s been years since Justin was here as a student but he’s not much older than the current attendees, possibly younger than some. That’s an oddity to which he long ago reconciled himself, became accustomed to nodding at the respect afforded him by those would have have been his seniors, maybe, in another life. But it is strange to sustain his usual collected expression given what he is here to ask for, knowing that he is willing to get down on his knees and beg even though it’s barely been two weeks since the last interaction he had with Stein and Death Scythe. But he’s been reliving that night ever since, in dreams and waking fantasies alike, can’t shake the effect it has had on his psyche.

Justin is ready to beg, to plead for the sympathy he’s not even sure Stein is capable of. But in the end he barely has to speak, starts with “You said I should--” before Stein cuts him off with “Yes” and stands so fast Justin falls silent, uncertain of whether the conversation is over or ongoing. Stein collects the papers spread over his desk, draws them into a messy stack against his chest, and when he turns towards the door he’s not even looking at the other, moves with no apparent acknowledgment of the blond’s existence. Justin watches him walk past, turns to stare after him in case he’s missing something, and it’s just as Stein is reaching for the door that he pauses, speaks without turning.

“Can you hear me?”

Justin blinks. “Yes.” His voice sounds strange in his ears, soft and childish without the usual rhythm of music to morph it into something stronger and steadier, but he shut the sound off before he came in, some intuitive premonition urging him into the unusual action.

“Come to the lab tonight,” Stein says, still without turning around so Justin can see neither the motion of his lips nor the expression on his face. “Spirit-senpai and I will be ready for you.”

It’s enough to go through Justin like lightning, like he’s had a direct hit of the meister’s Soul Force to jolt his heart into overdrive. He takes a breath, deep and anxious with gratitude, and Stein is gone, out of the door and out of earshot before Justin can put words to his thanks.

He thinks of nothing else for the rest of the day. It consumes his attention, renders him incapable of reading or studying or training, all his usual pursuits paling in comparison to his expectations for the night. Finally he gives up, pushes half-read books and barely-started reports aside and stares out the window, his music turned up so loud it’s nearly painful as he waits for the sun to set into something resembling dusk so he can leave for the walk across the city.

The lab is dark when he gets there. There aren’t any windows in the front, or anywhere that he can see, just the high walls and the stitched-over pattern that looks more like actual thread the closer he looks. The door seems to swallow the sound of his knock, but he’s not left waiting long; the entrance opens, lets the light from inside spill out into the gathering dark, and Stein is blinking at him, looking faintly confused like he’d forgotten about their conversation earlier.

“Hello,” Justin says, trying to figure the best way to phrase  _I’m here for a threesome_. “I came to see you earlier, you told me to come back tonight.”

Stein blinks again; then “Oh yeah,” and he moves aside, turns his back and walks down the hallway to leave Justin with the open door and his confusion. “Come on,” he says only as he’s turning the corner, when he looks back to see the other still in the doorway, and Justin has to scramble to come inside and shut the door before he moves to catch up with the meister.

The lab is just as confusing as the first time, the hallways a maze of turns and shadowy doorways that Stein doesn’t pause by long enough to let Justin peer into. He just strides through the space as confidently as if the corners are straight pathways, showing no sign of confusion even when they pass a doorway Justin is sure he’s seeing for the third time.

“Professor Stein?” Justin finally offers, when they turn right for the fifth time in two minutes. “Where are we--”

“Senpai,” Stein calls without looking back at Justin, and then he’s rounding a corner into a room gold-lit and glowing that they haven’t yet seen. “Are you ready?”

Justin trails in the meister’s wake, taking the turn into the bedroom that has become familiar from his dreams if not from true experience. Death Scythe is there already, as Stein’s shout implied, stretched out across the bed and just looking up from a book or maybe a magazine, judging from the thin spine. His usual jacket is absent, his tie missing as well, even the top buttons of his shirt undone to complete the image of casual domesticity.

“Were you being mean?” Death Scythe asks, barely glancing at Justin before he turns his attention to the meister coming in towards the foot of the bed.

“Of course not,” Stein says easily, flicking his gaze towards the blond before he reaches out to trail his fingers through the fall of red hair. Justin stays where he is, trying and failing to not stare at the casually affectionate motion of the meister’s fingers. “I was perfectly nice.”

“Sure you were,” Death Scythe says, sounding skeptical and amused. His magazine falls shut in his hands, he’s looking up to smile at the meister, and there’s a knot forming in Justin’s chest, the tension of jealousy he can’t even pin on one specific part of this interaction. There’s the easy desire of wanting to reach out, to feel the soft of the other weapon’s hair under his fingertips, to have the warmth of the redhead’s smile turned on him, but there’s no space for him in what he’s seeing, either, just the easy synchronization of a partnership he’s never experienced at all.

He’s not sure for a moment that either of the other two even remember he’s in the room; then Stein glances back, flashes him a smile without a trace of kindness in it, and says “Have a seat, Justin.”

Justin supposes he should be grateful, that this time there is neither bondage nor the threat of violence involved. He’s still stinging with the bitter of jealousy when he sits down -- in the same seat as last time, there’s an irony there too sharp to sidestep -- until he is starting to see the shape of regret in his thoughts, wondering if perhaps this was a worse idea than it seemed in the desperate ache of earlier in the day. But he’s here, he’s not about to leave now that he finally has what he thought he wanted, even if the actual fact of it is far less sweet than his imagination made it out to be.

He’s almost ignored, for the first few minutes. It’s remarkable how entirely Death Scythe focuses on the meister rather than the blond in the corner of the room, does so with an ease so unfeigned Justin has to wonder if he isn’t the first to be here, if he’s only the most recent in a long line of visitors. Even Stein’s attention is absent, this time, teasing and threats alike given over so he can turn in towards his weapon, push him back over the bed while Death Scythe laughs, reaches up to wrap his arms around the meister’s shoulders and pull him into a kiss. The contact is slow, thorough with the patience born of long-standing familiarity, neither of the parties in any hurry to proceed, and Justin’s blood starts to warm in spite of himself, his cheeks flushing self-conscious with the impression he’s spying on private intimacy and his cock going half-hard in spite of his best attempts to stay stoic and distant. It would be easier to pretend he weren’t affected, to make some excuse in his own head about not actually wanting this after all, but Death Scythe is turning his head and Stein is leaning in against his neck, and when the weapon makes a faint mewling sound of encouragement it’s Justin whose breath catches telltale loud in his throat. It’s Death Scythe who blinks over at him instead of Stein, the redhead’s gaze hazy and melted-over with warmth; then he smiles, slow and teasing, and whatever uncertainty was keeping Justin only half hard evaporates, he’s instantly painfully aroused, and as yet all three of them have their clothes on.

“Hey Stein,” Death Scythe asks, only looking away from Justin’s shocked-wide eyes after he’s spoken. “Can we let Justin join us this time?”

Stein says something, too soft and too close to the other for Justin to make out the words, but Death Scythe laughs, his expression falling open and delighted at whatever the meister said. Stein is shifting his weight, his mouth is pressing down into the dip at Death Scythe’s collar, and Justin doesn’t realize the meister’s hand has moved until the other weapon gasps a breath, rocks up hard against the fingers that have tugged his shirt loose and slid down under the waistband of his pants. Justin’s shifting too, letting his knees fall wider and angling a hand in between his legs so he can rock against his wrist, and he’s staring at the motion of Stein’s hand, the rhythmic movement of the meister’s arm suggesting what he’s doing better than telling it. He doesn’t realize his mouth is open, doesn’t have any idea what expression he’s making, but he’s hard inside his jeans, going damp against the front of his boxers, and Death Scythe is arching up off the bed like he’s trying to press himself into the same space as the meister. Justin wants to be there, with them, wants to cross the distance and throw himself into the heat and friction of the other two men, but the meister’s command is holding him back, keeping him still where he is and staring as avidly as he can while his breathing catches hot and frantic in his throat.

“Okay,” Stein says, and Justin blinks his focus back up to the meister’s face, realizes he hasn’t looked at the other for minutes, now. He’s pulling his hand away, rocking back on his heels so he can pull Death Scythe’s slacks open; he doesn’t glance at Justin at all, either as he works the zipper free or when he pulls the clothing off the other weapon’s hips entirely. Justin wasn’t expecting to get so much skin all at once; there’s too much to look at, the pale line of the other’s thighs and the curve of his back as he tips himself up off the bed, but mostly it’s his cock that’s the distraction, hard and flushed pink and slick against the head. Justin makes a sound without thinking, a weird broken whimper clearly audible across the room, and even then Stein doesn’t look at him, just closes his hand at Death Scythe’s hip and turns him over on his side so he’s facing the blond.

“Go for it,” he says. Justin doesn’t consider that the words might be meant for him, even when Stein moves off the bed and towards the nightstand against the other side; it’s not until the other weapon pushes up on an elbow and extends a hand to gesture Justin in that the possibility coalesces in his mind into an offer.

He gets to his feet in the first startled rush of appreciation, ready to surge in over the distance that was impossible moments before. But Stein’s not looking at him, hasn’t given his permission, and for a moment Justin stalls, glancing at the meister instead of the expectant offer of Death Scythe’s hand.

There’s a laugh, the other weapon chuckling warm and amused, and then: “He doesn’t call all the shots, you know. Come  _here_ , Justin” and Justin goes, carried forward on feet more obedient to that command than to his rational thought process.

The bed is soft under him, the sheets rumpling into warm friction under him as he leans in, hesitates with his weight barely on the bed. But Death Scythe is smiling, is reaching out to close his fingers on Justin’s arm and drag him in, and Justin leans in to fall forward onto his hands and knees on the bed.

“Have you ever given someone a blow job before?” Death Scythe asks, sounding worldly and experienced, and all Justin’s blood tries to rush to his face and to his cock simultaneously.

“Uh,” he says coherently, looks down at the angle of the other’s shirt instead of attempting to meet his eyes.

“Of course he hasn’t,” Stein’s voice says, and the bed shifts as he climbs onto the other side. “Not everyone slept around in school as much as you did, senpai.”

“I did  _not_ ,” Death Scythe protests, twisting up and away. “Just because you never spoke to anyone but me--”

“It’s easy,” Stein cuts him off, and Justin can’t look up, he’s already crimson and he can  _hear_  the laugh in the meister’s throat. “Careful with your teeth and go slow.” Motion again, an arm falling in around Death Scythe’s waist with casual possessiveness that burns through Justin like fire. “You’ll know what he likes. Senpai’s never been particularly quiet.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Death Scythe laughs, twisting back to look up at Stein, and Justin can’t see this from close up, he’s going to implode from heat or jealousy or both if he looks up to see the way the other weapon is looking at the meister, to watch the soft give of his lips as Stein kisses him. So he moves instead, ducks his head and slides down the bed until he’s eye-level with Death Scythe’s hips, can reach out and touch the other man’s skin if he wants.

He  _does_  want. He’s trembling with it, desire vibrating through him like the sound from his usual headphones has become his blood and heartbeat. But he’s frozen still, can’t get himself to move forward or reach out to rest his fingers against the other’s skin, and he knows he’s staring but he can’t get himself to move.

Then “Justin,” from Stein, “Open your mouth,” and there’s a hand in his hair, the touch gentle but firm enough that it breaks through Justin’s frozen panic. He leans in under the urging of that touch, opens his mouth without thinking, and Stein’s fingers are pushing him forward until there’s the heat of Death Scythe’s cock against his lips and a shocking bitterness against his tongue, and he has to reach out to brace himself against the other weapon’s hip just to steady his motion.

“Now just move,” Stein says, letting his touch go, but Death Scythe is breathing hard, there’s another hand fitting in against Justin’s shoulder with more encouragement than leverage. Justin takes a breath through his nose, tries to lean in closer, and Death Scythe hums, a faint purr of satisfaction that goes through Justin like electricity.

“Good,” Stein says, but Justin barely hears him, doesn’t pay attention to the shift of the movement from the other side of the bed. All his focus is given to the pace of Death Scythe’s breathing, the catch of reaction he can hear when he tries shifting his tongue or turning his head, and his mouth is full of the taste of salt and bitter and his jaw hurts from holding his mouth open uncomfortably wide but he doesn’t even think of pulling away. His head is spinning, he’s in so far over his head he can’t see sunlight anymore, but he doesn’t care, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.

The hand at his shoulder tightens, Death Scythe choking a laugh as he suggests, “Slower, Justin, it’s not a race.” He’s tensing under Justin’s hold, his body going taut, and from the way Stein is murmuring something Justin can’t understand the blond can piece together why. He doesn’t care about that either. The jealousy is absent, or at least drowned out by the rush of his pulse in his ears and the hot resistance of Death Scythe in his mouth. Even when the other weapon sighs satisfaction and shifts his hips back towards the meister Justin doesn’t pull away, just leans in closer to trail the other’s movement. It becomes impossible to tell who is drawing what reactions out of the other weapon; sometimes Death Scythe will shudder or whimper out of all time with Justin’s movements, clear tells for Stein doing something that Justin isn’t paying attention to. But then Justin shifts his tongue, or tightens his lips, or leans in closer, and Death Scythe’s hand presses into his shoulder and the other weapon will groan over him and it feels like a hard-won victory. Even when the other two start moving together with the same resonant singularity that aches loneliness into Justin’s thoughts he doesn’t pull away, just comes in harder and moves faster like he can push away his solitude by sheer force of will.

He’s not expecting the end when it comes. He’s lost all track of time, his attention melting away until the ache in his jaw feels endless, the shape of his lips formed around heat seems ordinary. He’s sliding down, falling into pace with the rhythm that has formed itself between himself and the other two men, when Death Scythe makes a choking noise over his head, his hand comes up to clutch at Justin’s hair, and there’s heat spilling over the blond’s tongue, a wave of bitter far more satisfying than it ought to be. Justin only hesitates for a moment; then he’s swallowing, quick before he can think about it, and the salt burns his throat but Death Scythe’s purr of satisfaction is worth all the lingering bitter on his tongue.

He’s barely pulled away when the hand at his hair tugs upward, urges him back up to eye-level with the other weapon. Death Scythe looks unfocused, hazy and blissful, and for a moment Justin has the brief insane expectation of a kiss. Then “Turn around,” so gently he doesn’t even mind being wrong. He does, even if it means giving up watching the other weapon’s face, and an arm loops around his waist, pulls him back flush against the half-buttoned line of Death Scythe’s shirt. Justin can feel the heat as if his clothes aren’t between them at all, like everything covering him has evaporated through force of will, and then the hand around his waist dips down to the front of his jeans and he can’t breathe at all.

“Not bad for your first time,” Death Scythe is saying, slow and pleased against his ear, and those fingers -- Death Scythe’s fingers -- are fumbling Justin’s pants open, pushing against the fabric. Justin can feel the warmth turning to a burn the closer Death Scythe comes to contact, anticipation flickering tension up under his spine, and then the hand is gone, the hold is settling at his hip instead, and before he has time to even think a protest another, cooler hand is sliding over his skin.

“You’re a fast learner,” Stein says, the praise almost a taunt on his lips, and his fingers close in around Justin’s flushed cock. Justin shuts his eyes to the burst of sensation in his blood, groans trembling and helpless, and Stein starts to stroke over him with more speed than Justin can handle. He’s shaking under the pressure, trembling until he’s not sure if he wants to get away or rock in for more, but Death Scythe is holding him steady by his hip and Justin thinks they might all three be moving together, that maybe he’s fallen into sync with the other two on sheer accident. The idea draws him hotter, harder, rushes heat up his spine and out into his cheeks, and the shake in his limbs feels like pleasure, now, some enormous force he’s completely helpless to. Someone is breathing harder behind him, Stein or Death Scythe or both, Justin’s not sure, and he’s panting for breath himself, his fingers are closing on the wrist of the hand jerking up over him in a last desperate attempt to hold onto his frame of reference.

It’s not enough. He’s too late to reach for that point of contact, or he’s too far gone already, his sense of self is already fracturing away under the friction. He takes a breath, raw and straining for air, and then he’s moaning, his head coming back to hit Death Scythe’s shoulder as he spills in long pulses of heat all over Stein’s fingers and the edge of his pants. He isn’t sure if Stein finished himself, isn’t sure when it happened; his temporal awareness is distorted, his identity itself dissolved for a few minutes while he shudders through the aftershocks of pleasure. By the time he can force his hands to stop shaking the warmth at his back is gone, meister and weapon both have pulled away, and when he pushes off the bed to sit up the other two are both watching him from the far edge of the bed.

Death Scythe offers him a smile. It’s warm, easy, languid with pleasure and glowing bright in his eyes. Justin watches his expression, even when Stein is the one to speak.

“You’re heading back out to your post again soon, aren’t you?” He sounds bored, uninterested in the answer, like the question is more rhetorical than otherwise. “Guess we won’t see as much of you after this.” A pause, drawn long and heavy with consideration. “We’ll both be here next time you return.”

Justin blinks. When he looks up Stein is watching him, his eyes invisible behind the shine of his glasses, but there’s the faintest twist of a smile at his lips, a tiny upward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

When Justin reaches for an expression, it’s the meister’s he finds at his lips.

“Yes,” he says, and he sounds cool, steady, composed, like he ought to. “I’m sure I’ll see you both.”

It’s close enough to an offer to satisfy.


End file.
